A 6th Bowl of Chicken Soup for the Soul: More Stories to Open the Heart and Rekindle the Spirit
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A 6th Bowl of Chicken Soup for the Soul: More Stories to Open the Heart and Rekindle the Spirit
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Overview
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781453280096 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Chicken Soup for the Soul |
| Publication date: | 09/18/2012 |
| Series: | Chicken Soup for the Soul Series |
| Sold by: | SIMON & SCHUSTER |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 384 |
| File size: | 1 MB |
About the Author
Jack Canfield is co-creator of the Chicken Soup for the Soul® series, which includes forty New York Times bestsellers, and coauthor of The Success Principles: How to Get from Where You Are to Where You Want to Be. He is a leader in the field of personal transformation and peak performance and is currently CEO of the Canfield Training Group and Founder and Chairman of the Board of The Foundation for Self-Esteem. An internationally renowned corporate trainer and keynote speaker, he lives in Santa Barbara, California.
Mark Victor Hansen is a co-founder of Chicken Soup for the Soul.
Hometown:
Santa Barbara, CaliforniaDate of Birth:
August 19, 1944Place of Birth:
Fort Worth, TexasEducation:
B.A. in History, Harvard University, 1966; M.A.T. Program, University of Chicago, 1968; M.Ed., U. of Massachusetts, 1973Website:
http://www.jackcanfield.comRead an Excerpt
A 6th Bowl of Chicken Soup for the Soul
More Stories to Open the Heart and Rekindle the Spirit
By Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen
Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC
Copyright © 2012 Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLCAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4532-8009-6
CHAPTER 1
ON LOVE
The love we give away is the only love we keep.
Elbert Hubbard
The Healing Power of Love
We dreaded Christmas that year. It was 1944, and the war would never be over for our family.
The telegram had arrived in August. Bob's few personal possessions, the flag from his coffin, the plan of his burial site in the Philippine Islands, and a Distinguished Flying Cross had arrived one by one, adding to our agonizing grief. Born on a Midwest prairie, my brother rode horseback to school but wanted to fly an airplane from the first day he saw one. By the time he was twenty-one, we were living in Seattle, Washington. When World War II broke out, Bob headed for the nearest Air Force recruitment office. Slightly built, skinny like his father, he was ten pounds underweight.
Undaunted, he persuaded Mother to cook every fattening food she could think of. He ate before meals, between meals and after meals. We laughed and called him "lardo."
At the Navy Cadet Office he stepped on the scale—still three pounds to go. He was desperate. His friends were leaving one after the other; his best buddy was already in the Marine Air Corps. The next morning, he ate a pound of greasy bacon, six eggs and five bananas, drank two gallons of milk, and, bloated like a pig, staggered back on their scales. He passed the weigh-in with eight ounces to spare.
When he was nominated Hot Pilot of primary training school in Pasco, Washington, and involuntarily joined the "Caterpillar Club" (engine failure causing the bailout) at St. Mary's, California, we shook our heads and worried. Mother prayed. He was born fearless, and she knew it. Before graduating from Corpus Christi, he applied for transfer to the Marine Air Corps at Pensacola, Florida. He trained in torpedo bombers before being sent overseas.
They said Bob died under enemy fire over New Guinea in the plane he wanted so desperately to fly.
I never wept for Bob. In my mind's eye, I pictured my debonair big brother wing-tapping through the clouds, doing what he loved best, his blue eyes sparkling with love of life. But I wept for the sadness that never left my parents' eyes.
Mother's faith sustained her, but my father aged before our eyes. He listened politely whenever the minister came to call, but we knew Daddy was bitter. He dragged himself to work every day but lost interest in everything else, including his beloved Masonic Club. He very much wanted a Masonic ring, and at Mother's insistence he had started saving for the ring. Of course, after Bob died, that too ceased.
I dreaded the approach of Christmas. Bob loved Christmas. His enthusiasm excited us long before reason took over. His surprises were legendary: a dollhouse made at school, a puppy hidden in mysterious places for little brother, an expensive dress for Mother bought with the very first money he ever earned. Everything had to be a surprise.
What would Christmas be without Bob? Not much. Aunts, uncles and Grandmother were coming, so we went through the motions as much for memory as anything, but our hearts weren't in it. Dad sat for longer and longer periods, staring silently out the window, and Mother's heart was heavy with worry....
On December 23, another official-looking package arrived. My father watched stone-faced as Mother unpacked Bob's dress blues. After all this time, why oh why did they—the nameless they—send his dress uniform, I thought bitterly. Silence hung heavy. As she refolded the uniform to put it away, a mother's practicality surfaced, and she went through the pockets almost by rote, aching with grief.
In a small, inside jacket pocket was a neatly folded fifty-dollar bill with a tiny note in Bob's familiar handwriting: "For Dad's Masonic ring."
If I live to be a hundred, I will never forget the look on my father's face. Some kind of beautiful transformation took place—a touch of wonder, a hint of joy, a quiet serenity that was glorious to behold. Oh, the healing power of love! He stood transfixed, staring at the note and the trimly folded fifty-dollar bill in his hand for what seemed an eternity; then he walked to Bob's picture hanging prominently on the wall and solemnly saluted.
"Merry Christmas, Son," he murmured, and turned to welcome Christmas.
Mary Sherman Hilbert
How Much Love Can You Fit in a Shoebox?
The little things? The little moments? They aren't little.
Jon Kabat-Zinn
On a cold and rainy February morning, my mom, four brothers and I cleaned out Dad's apartment. There were a thousand places we would have rather been, but we were together and the rest of the world seemed distant. With Dad's funeral scheduled for the next day, it was all I could do to take my mind off the reality of his heart attack. Everything he owned was in his apartment. He wasn't materialistic, yet every belonging seemed priceless. His countless drawings filled every room. His notepads of sketches he drew in the hospital had a flavor of who he really was. His deteriorating car and torn furniture didn't begin to describe what made him successful in my eyes.
He took life one day at a time, never taking anything too seriously. It was his best quality ... and his worst. I was thirty-seven years old and had grown up much like him, putting tremendous value on the little things in life.
I moped around from room to room, gathering souvenirs and throwing out the garbage he never had the chance to. As I turned the corner and entered his bedroom, I quickly spotted his prized possession. It was a letter from my eight-year-old nephew declaring his unconditional love for his grampa—how much he loved him, loved fishing with him and how he hoped he would never die. Dad's heart melted and eyes watered whenever he spoke of the letter. It touched him deeply. He proudly displayed it to anyone and everyone. I gathered the cleanup crew to read it one last time. We all seemed to realize where this letter belonged—with Dad, forever.
My mind wandered back to the time I wanted to write a similar message to Dad. It was less than a year ago when I sat down to write. My heart wanted to fill the page with the traits and values I had grown to respect. Before a single word was written, my head took over and I realized Dad could never keep such a letter to himself. Even if he promised never to show it to my brothers, I somehow knew his good intentions would eventually be overtaken by his heartfelt pride. I'd be too embarrassed expressing such feelings at this point in my life. Besides, my actions had always spoken louder than words, so I didn't write it. Knowing Dad was indestructible, I always figured there'd be time.
As the years rolled on, it bothered me that I never wrote that letter. My mom wasn't getting any younger, and thoughts of not having thanked her for all the things she had done for me started creeping in. Now, instead of feeling embarrassed, I wanted to include my brothers in this project. Christmas was only a month away, and what a great present this could be for all of us to write about something we'd never thanked her for. We all had to write something because if one of us declined I knew she'd put more weight on why one didn't write anything.
It would not be an easy task to get my brothers to write. I needed a plan.
I was committed to the point of listing my brothers' names in order from who I imagined was the easiest to convince to the hardest. I determined Bob would be the easiest. He always got along with Mom. Gary would be second. He usually mailed a Mother's Day card. Mark was next. He hadn't spoken to her for six months. Even worse, he had four kids who weren't seeing their gramma, and I knew Gramma missed the kids. Rick lived in Rochester and, except for the occasional ninety-minute obligatory trips to Buffalo to see her, he had limited contact with Mom.
We all crafted our reasons for not staying in contact with Mom. My brothers and I didn't intentionally alienate her, but we didn't seem to go out of our way to stay in touch either. She seemed the perpetual martyr, and her words and tone of voice left us upset to the point where the frustration her words created overpowered our understanding of her hurt.
I sat by the phone, frozen in my thoughts. This would either happen or it would be the most embarrassing idea I ever shared with my brothers.
So there I was ... nervous ... shaking ... feeling all the insecurities that kept me from writing Dad. By now, the "what ifs" were coming faster than my hands were moving toward the phone. But this time, I was determined to succeed or be humiliated.
So I picked up the phone and called Bob. I explained what I wanted to do, why I wanted to do it and what my plan was. To me, Bob was a given, no problem, just a matter of explaining the game plan. When I got done with my two-minute speech, there was a pause at the other end. "Well, it would have been a lot easier if we had written one for Dad!" he said with deadpan reasoning.
Yikes! What kind of an answer was that? I thought. This brother was the "for sure." Under other circumstances, I may have crumbled and agreed with him, but this was not the direction I had committed to take. So I restated, "Putting that aside, can you think of something you've never thanked Mom for?"
"Sure," he said.
"Well, could you write a letter and have it ready to hand me on Christmas Eve when the family gets together at Mom's house?"
"All right, I'll do it!" he stated without further hesitation. I hung up the phone, and my first thought was, Good, I have one in the bank. I could use that to enroll brothers number two, three and four. It was a plan. I hadn't expected Bob to give me any resistance, so I knew the job wasn't going to get any easier.
Gary was next. He replied in the sensitive, caring fashion I had anticipated. "How long does it have to be, and what do we have to say?"
Mark was next. I was nervous before I called him. Not only hadn't he spoken to Mom in months, I knew he was mad at her. I started my conversation by explaining the idea and that Bob and Gary had already agreed. I was expecting my hardest time with Mark.
I'll never forget what happened next.
As I finished, he started right into a story. "I remember when I was in junior high school and got suspended for something I didn't do. I got sent home, and Mom asked me, 'Did you do it?' I said, 'No!' She took me back to school to face Mr. Schaefer, the most feared disciplinary teacher any student ever encountered. We marched into his office, and before I knew it, Mom was screaming at him, saying, 'If my son said he didn't do it, he didn't do it.' When she was done with him, he was somewhere under the desk apologizing for his obvious mistake."
Mark's story rolled off his lips as if it happened yesterday. I was shocked because not only had I never heard that story, but he recalled it so vividly.
Rick was next. He had a similar story to Mark's from back in high school. Besides Bob, Gary and Mark had already agreed, and my work actually seemed to get easier. It was like my brothers' stroll down memory lane rekindled a different message and memory they had of Mom. I hopefully put them back to a time when she was always there, as if she had never left. Four in the bank, at least verbally.
Two days before Christmas Eve, I called all four brothers, and each had finished his letter. My final instructions to them were to bring the letters to Mom's, and I was going to put all five into a shoebox I had wrapped to give to her.
Christmas Eve arrived. I handed the box to Mom and said, "This present is from all of us. Do not open it until tomorrow." She looked puzzled, wondering what we were up to, but agreed and said, "Thank you."
Christmas Eve was always fun at Mom's, but this year it was special for me. I knew I pulled off something I couldn't have imagined. As my brothers and their families gathered to open presents, this year was different. Closer ... nicer ... warmer.
I drove home that night with the greatest feeling of accomplishment. I recalled Mom talking to the grandkids and laughing all night long. Maybe the night was special for everyone. We all seemed a lot closer to her that night, or maybe it was just me hoping it was all this way again.
Christmas morning the phone rang. It was Mom. She told me how she couldn't wait until morning to open the shoebox. She read all the letters three times and cried herself to sleep. She said, "I knew you were the one responsible for doing this, and it was wonderful." I told her we were all responsible for doing this, and it was long overdue.
I never knew what my brothers wrote in their letters, not completely. As for me, I included a story of when I was ten years old and wanted to go to a sports competition. I can't remember the exact words, but it went something like this: "No one seemed to feel it was a big deal, but you saw the disappointment in my face and said, 'I'll take you.' You sat in the rain for over an hour as I tried my best to win a prize. I don't think I ever thanked you, but it meant a lot to me."
I also told her how hard it must have been for her to raise five boys with all of us being a little closer to Dad. "We knew he got the easy job of playing good guy while you were forced to be the one who disciplined us when we were bad. You were the one who taught us right from wrong, fair and unfair, and to apologize when we were wrong. You did that, and I thank you."
Mom had longed to hear such words for years. It was always in our hearts but never got translated to her. I always saw her cry after cooking Thanksgiving dinner. She would prepare all day, while Dad, my brothers and I gobbled it up and proceeded to the living room to tend to our own priorities.
I see a lot of Mom and Dad in me, and I couldn't be happier. I started out wanting to do something for Mom to show her how we felt. We got to revisit our appreciation for her and how she had always been there for us.
In hindsight, I really did it for Bob, Gary, Mark, Rick and me.
I hung up the phone that snowy Christmas morning, reclined on the couch and looked up to imagine Dad wiping a tear from his eye.
Seems everyone got something special out of this Christmas.
Jim Schneegold
Discretion Is the Better Part of Marriage
Seventeen years ago on a cold and blustery Saturday, I stood in the arch of a sanctuary with baby's breath in my hair and a foolish grin on my face, too big of a ninny to realize that I ought to be scared to death.
As a swell of Mozart filled air that was thick with my great aunt's Chantilly, my nervous, tuxedo-clad father bent down to whisper what I thought would be words of paternal wisdom. "It's not too late," he hissed, waving a wad of bills. "If you want to weasel out of this, I'll give you five hundred bucks and a Greyhound ticket any place you want to go."
I didn't tell my soon-to-be husband, Jeff, this story for several years. It wasn't that Dad didn't like "that tall kid"—he did—but the combination of watching my sister's impulsive first marriage unravel and knowing that Jeff and I had met less than five months before was making him a little gun shy.
That problem was soon remedied. As some wit said, marriage remains the most efficient way to get acquainted. We met over Labor Day, got engaged at Thanksgiving and married in the windiest January on record. Between immediately moving out east where neither of us knew a soul and then having a child before our second anniversary, we got to know each other (as my southern Missouri relatives would say) right soon.
Though seventeen years hardly qualifies us for one of those fatuous anniversary greetings from Willard Scott, we've been married long enough to know a thing or two. Before the honeymoon was over, we were certain that the bozo who wrote "Love means never having to say you're sorry" had obviously never been married. While having the last word might be intellectually satisfying, it's mighty chilly on your own side of the bed. We've also been married long enough to know how much fun it is to have private jokes that drive our children crazy. It would take us a very long time to explain to them why the terms "garlic milk shakes" and "bluebird watching society" set us off, and besides, you had to be there.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from A 6th Bowl of Chicken Soup for the Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen. Copyright © 2012 Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC. Excerpted by permission of Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
Introduction,1. ON LOVE,
2. ON PARENTING,
3. ON DEATH AND DYING,
4. ON TEACHING AND LEARNING,
5. OVERCOMING OBSTACLES,
6. LIVE YOUR DREAM,
7. A MATTER OF PERSPECTIVE,
8. ECLECTIC WISDOM,
Who Is Jack Canfield?,
Who Is Mark Victor Hansen?,
Contributors,
Permissions,